Tomorrow Never Knows
by Holiday On The Moon
Summary: A story about how a young greaser befriends a crazy hippie, and their many adventures.
1. A very short Prolugue

**Author's note: Hello all! This is my first fan fiction, so be easy on me. Constructive criticism will help me become a better writer. The title is based off The Beatles "Tomorrow Never Knows", a song off the Revolver album.**

One hot summer night, in the year of 1968, I am walking along the streets of the West Side to get home after watching a movie. My name is Seth, a greaser with a switchblade and an attitude. My mother had died in an accident, and my dad is in jail. Anyway, I am walking along the streets when all of a sudden, a blue Mustang pulls up. I pull out my switchblade in a firm way. About three Socs come out of the car, all smelling of gin and expensive cologne. "Ay, let's teach this greaser a lesson for being in the presence of a Soc," says a Soc in a slurred voice. "Yeah, yeah," says another. My eyes grow big as dinner plates as they are all carrying knives. "Hey guys, is that John Lennon I see?" I say, pointing behind them. "What, where?" says all of them in unison. As soon as they are distracted, I bolt in the opposite direction towards Ponyboy's house, when all of a sudden, an arm pulls me into an abandoned house.

**Yeah sorry it was short. More chapters will come in the near future. Please make sure to review my story and if my story is weak, feel free to help me out. Goodbye for now! ^_^**


	2. Abbie the Hippie

I sit in absolute silence as I hear the Socs walk past the door. I start to speak, but a finger presses on my lips. "Shhh," says a voice. A light comes on, and I am looking into the face of a 19 year old hippie! He is wearing psychedelic tie-dye baggy clothing, with love beads, yellow shaded glasses, and has his long hair into a ponytail. "Wassup, man?" he asks me in a calm voice. "W-h-h-o are you?" I stammer. "Me? I'm Abbie, your average long-haired hippie, but people call me Weed." says the hippie in a friendly voice. "I'm Seth, and I-why do they call you that?" I ask. "Because I smoke dope, man." he says, grinning. He smokes a joint, and points to a turntable. "Rock 'n roll, man," he simply says. He gets up and puts in a record, and immediately, I recognize the album: Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band by The Beatles. "I love this album. Do you like the Beatles?" he asks. "Nah, I really don't. We greasers listen to Elvis. He's tuff." I reply. He gives me a skeptical look. "Elvis is old stuff, man. I listen to all psychedelic rock, like The Beatles, The Byrds, The Yardbirds, The Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Cream, and Pink Floyd. They're all pretty wicked, man." He takes another smoke of his cigarette.  
We sit in silence. Soon the first track ends as the second track of the album starts. "What would you do, if I sang out of tune, would you stand up and walk out on me? Lend me your ears, and I'll sing you a song, and I'll try not to sing out of key. Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends. Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends. Gonna try with a little help from my friends." sings Ringo Starr. "Do you live here?" I ask. He smokes again, then withdraws the cigarette from his mouth. "Yeah, bro. My parents kicked me out of the house, but I was able to take my possessions with me." he says. He then raises an eyebrow and turns off the turntable. "Shouldn't you get home, little man?" he asks in a sincere voice. "Nah, I don't live my parents anymore. I'm homeless." I say. I grow red about talking about my mom's death, and my abusive foster family. "Can I sleep here?" I ask. "Sure, little dude. I've got an extra sleeping bag over there." he replies. He points to an orange sleeping bag in the corner of the room. "Thanks," I say gratefully. Before I even put my head on my pillow, I passed out.

When I awoke, it was dawn. I stayed there for a moment, then I got up. As I dressed and got ready to walk out the door, Abbie woke up. "Hey little man, did you sleep well?" asks Abbie sleepily. "Yeah, I did. Hey, thanks for the hospitality, man." I reply gratefully. "Did you want any breakfast?" asks Abbie. "Nah, I'm good. Thanks and goodbye." I say as I walk out. I walk on the same sidewalk the Socs had chased me on. Now that I think about it, the hippies were just as victims as the greasers were. The Socs had not only picked on the greasers, but even the hippies, even though the hippies didn't do anything wrong to them at all. Even greasers like us hated hippies. But why was this so? I think of this while kicking a stone. I stop as I walk into a convenience store 


End file.
